Connecticut western news., 1887-04-13

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 And then had come the dreadful rail- roa accident and they had brought back his body to be buried at king's Cross, because tine railroad corporation owned lot in the old churchyard, and it was the most convenient place for the interment of the poor victims of the mishap.
 There they lay, side by side, their graves marked only by rude stone crosses, inscribed simply by the name and death date of each sleeper.
 And Mary felt that her heart was broken and lifelcss within her forever. '
 "Nonsaaser' Mrs. Yorke had said. "It won't last-nothing lasts. Why, l had just such experience when l was a gal. There was Abe Alexon, as drove tin-peddler's wagon, the likeliest fellow you ever set eyes on. Me and him was as good as engaged, but we had spat and parted, and the very next week he fell over Kings Cross Cliff of a dark night and was killed. Bless you, l felt as if the whole world had come to an end; but here be now married to Hiram Yorke, and as happy as most folks. Hiram ain't perfection, to be sure, but Abe was pretty partial to old rye, too, or he'd never have drove his old horse over Kings Cross Cliff instead O 'round it. And reckon things aPays happens for the best, take one year with an other," contcntedly added the stout ma tron, as she stirred a saucepanful of onions with ponderous tin spoon, while Mary Folyott winced at the unpalatable parallel.
 What was there in common between handsome Hugh Derby and the luckless hero who, once on time, peddled tin and drank too much?
 The mullins were baked, the eggs fried to the exact shade of golden brown, and the breakfast for "the gentleman in Number Nineteen" safely off her mind, when Mary Folyott stole down to the graveyard once more, with a basket of delicious white rhododendrons, which a little colored girl had just brought her from the woods.
 'I done knowed yo' loved white po- sies, missee," said Cora Anne, who was in Miss Folyott's class at Sunday school, ''so done brung yo desc var"
 It was golden noontidc nov; the clus- ters of sweet fern exhaling aromatic scents; the COWS stan ding in the shadow of hazel copses; the ocean sparkling like plain of blue diamonds.
 The task of decorating the graves for which Kings Cross usually turned out with band, a covered wagon, and a concourse of struggling villagers would not commence until three o'clock.
 "They shall see that he has not been forgottcn," said Mary, as she toiled along under the bowery apple branches, and past the rippling music of the little brook. "Oh, Hugh-my Hugh-if only I could recall one short hour of the past!"
 Sine strewed the white rhodo odendrons on the green sod, as the words escaped involunta,ily from her lips.
 "Ob, Hugh-dear Hugh-if could only speak to you once again!" she uttered, aloud.
 ''Speak, then, dearest Maryl My Mary, if I were indeed dead and in heaven, think I could not be happie, than am now"
 The basket of rhod dodendrons fell tc the ground. Mary Folyott wou d have fallen, too, if she had not been caught in pair of strong arms.
 Darling Mary, do not turn so whitep pleaded her lover. 'I am not a ghost, no phantoml am Hugh Derby's self, alive and we'll, come back to lay my heart at your feet, and claim the love that is so precious to me. It isn't so impossi- ble as you think. Pm not dead, and never have been dead. But the pool fellow who had the bed next to mine ir the Accident Ward of the St. Monica. Hospital, died tEe night they brought him in, and the cards at our bed-heads got accident,y changed. l was No. 4 and when my number was affixed to another bed, I lost my identity at once. We are no ! Smith or Brown in hospital, Mary-we are only Six or Four, as the case may be. So when poor Maurice Blenheim died, in the bed labelled 4, they turned to their books and made out burial certificate for Hugh Derby, ont l of the victims of the railroad accident And before recovered from the brair | fever that followed on the blow I re- ceived from the end of the car seat whe1 I fell they had me duly buried with al the honors of book and bill. l couldn' make lem believe that I was Hugh Der. by, and not Maurice B!enheim, and s, I left eff trying. And, after all, wha | ulU It udtGeT luuCu? " udC CQdrm Qa( life left for mel"
 "But, Hugh, loved you."
 "But, M.ry, I did not know it; ant so I dawdled away the sunshiny hours o1 those sweet F.oridian shores, thinkin, how strange it felt to be wanderin, alone, like disembodied spirit, withou any identity at all, and half disposed t wonder for what especial use God hat given me back my life, when all of
 sudden the strong desire came upon m
 to travel northward to Kings Cross-t look upon my own grave. Mary, I bs
 lieve to heaven it was your love attract l inu me like an invisible maonet Swea1